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Rodimus lounges on his back on the floor of Ratchet's hab. He lies at Ratchet's pedes, whining occasionally. But Ratchet keeps ignoring him, pretending to watch a video on the holoscreen.
Rodimus keeps his hands curled into paws, tucked up under his chin. Fluffy dog ears are magnetized to either side of his helm, and a long furry tail is similarly attached to his lower back. Around his neck is a pink collar with a name tag that clinks gently against his armor. He squirms, fighting the urge to touch himself. His panels have been open since the beginning of this game, and yet he still hasn't been allowed to overload even once.
In the corner of the room, Drift is curled up and sulking in the dog crate. He's wearing similar accessories made of white fur as opposed to Rodimus's orange ones. Ratchet had to put him away because Rodimus kept trying to mount him whenever Ratchet's back was turned. Now they're both being punished.
Ratchet presses a pede to Rodimus's middle, rubbing back and forth like he's soothing an anxious dog. "Hush now."
Rodimus whines harder. His spike is hard and aching, bouncing slightly with every desperate motion of his hips. Ratchet makes him wait, still petting his stomach.
"Did you want something, boy?" Ratchet asks.
Rodimus swallows his whines. He widens his optics and tilts his head, begging.
"Aww, how could I say no to that cute lil' face." Ratchet teases. Then he lifts his pede and plants it right over Rodimus's spike and valve, pressing hard.
Rodimus keens. His backstrut arches as he does his best to roll his hips into the underside of Ratchet's pede. It's rough and unyielding, harsh against his spike and the outer lips of his valve. But he doesn't care, too mindless with lust to do anything but chase whatever contact he can get.
When Ratchet can tell that Rodimus is getting too close to overload he lets up, leaving Rodimus humping the air. "Ah-ah! You haven't earned that yet."
Rodimus whimpers, rolling over onto his hands and knees. He hunches his shoulders, looking up pleadingly at Ratchet. But his master is unaffected.
"You going to be good for me and earn it?" Ratchet asks.
Rodimus nods before remembering that that's not what a dog should do. He wiggles his aft back and forth to wag his tail eagerly.
"Sit!"
Rodimus sits.
"Beg!"
He raises his paws and sticks out his glossa, panting.
"Speak!"
"Woof!" A flash of humiliation runs through him but it's quelled by Ratchet petting his helm.
"Good boy. Let's see if you're ready for Drift to join us again."
Rodimus wags his tail harder.
"Stay." Ratchet commands before walking to the crate.
Drift has perked up by now, scratching at the door to the crate with his knuckles. He backs up when Ratchet approaches.
"Sit and stay."
Drift does as he's told. He sits back on his haunches, paws planted on the floor of the crate. The model show dog.
Ratchet opens the crate. "Come!"
Drift crawls out. He sits beside Rodimus, still perfectly calm. But he's just as visibly pent up, spike straining and valve dripping. Rodimus doesn't know how he sits so still like that, he has to keep shifting side to side to distract himself from his unbearably high charge.
Ratchet sits back down on his couch. "You may kiss but you may not touch. Don't stop until I tell you to."
They both shift on their knees until they're face to face. Rodimus scoots in, one knee between Drift's. Their spikes are tantalizingly close, but he has to ignore that.
Drift leans in delicately, pressing his lip plates to Rodimus's. Rodimus pushes back hard, licking along Drift's mouth until he opens up. Then he locks their mouths together, drinking in Drift as much as he can. His frame begs for touch, and the slide of their glossas against each other leaves him dizzy with want.
Rodimus pushes too hard and Drift pulls away, off balance. They both pant, venting steam.
"I didn't say you could stop." Ratchet reminds them.
Rodimus glances over. Ratchet has his spike out and is lazily stroking himself. His chin is propped on his free hand, his optics burning into his two partners.
Drift pulls Rodimus's attention away from Ratchet by nipping his lower lip and tugging hard. Rodimus yelps, but Drift smothers the sound with his mouth. Oral fluid drips between them as they meet again and again, a constant push and pull.
Rodimus presses his frame as close as he can, spike fitting into the groove of Drift's hip. Drift's spike nudges against his stomach, and he can feel Drift hitching his hips to chase the contact. They rub against each other, prefluid staining each of their armor in turn. Lubricant puddles beneath them, sticking to their legs.
Ratchet groans. "Frag, that's hot. Stop, stop, come here now."
Rodimus is so lost in it that he almost doesn't register the command. But then Drift breaks away and separates their frames. Rodimus chases after him then huffs in frustration, following after as he crawls to Ratchet.
Ratchet directs Drift to kneel on one side, Rodimus on the other. His spike is between them, hard and dripping.
"Use your mouths." He instructs. "Go slow."
Drift leans in first, licking up the side of Ratchet's spike. Rodimus sways before diving in, mouthing clumsily. He can hardly focus with Drift pressed right up against him, panting and slurping messily at Ratchet's spike. Not to mention Ratchet himself, venting hard and swearing quietly.
Ratchet's hand lands on the back of Rodimus's helm, steadying him. It's the grounding touch he needs. He redoubles his efforts to get Ratchet off, ducking his helm and lapping enthusiastically at his spike.
Then Rodimus goes in at the same time as Drift and the corners of their mouths meet. He immediately forgets Ratchet's instructions. In an instant he's captured Drift's mouth again and is bowling him over onto the floor.
Drift lands hard on his back and presses up to keep their frames in contact. Rodimus whines into Drift's mouth, his spike nudging against Drift's valve. Drift arches up to meet him and Rodimus thrusts into him. He hangs his helm as his hips rabbit forward, desperately chasing relief.
"Rodimus, no! Bad boy!" Ratchet's voice cuts like a whip crack through the air.
Through sheer force of will, Rodimus manages to hold himself still. His frame trembles all over. He's still inside Drift, and it takes everything he has to not rock into that delicious tight warmth.
Drift also pouts, tilting his helm to meet Ratchet's optics with a pleading look.
"No, you know the rules. Both of you." Ratchet tugs at the back of Rodimus's collar.
Rodimus slowly pulls out, scooting back on his knees. Drift rolls over and kneels beside him.
"Only good boys get treats." Ratchet scolds. "For that Rodimus, you have to get me off on your own. Then you will be allowed to mount Drift."
Drift grins, making a happy noise. Rodimus hisses frustrated steam through his dentae. He lunges forward, planting his hands on Ratchet's knees and pushing them wide open.
"Rodimus!" Ratchet protests. But then his voice hitches as Rodimus ducks down to lap from the seam of his valve to the tip of his spike.
He works over Ratchet's anterior node, suckling at it like it's candy. Ratchet grips his helm fins and cries out, his whole frame shaking. Rodimus lets go of his node with a pop! Then he starts in on his spike.
Ratchet's spike is lined with sensory nodes along the underside, and has sensitive gaps between the segments. Rodimus pays special attention to every node and seam as he laps and kisses his way up Ratchet's spike. When he reaches the tip he swirls his glossa around it before sucking it down.
"Ngh! Frag!" Ratchet chokes out, vocalizer glitching.
Rodimus tends to run hot at all times, especially in his vents. With how much he's been venting through his throat, it's warmed up significantly. Ratchet squirms from the heat as Rodimus takes him as deep as he can, not stopping until his lips are wrapped around the base. Only then does he pull back halfway before ducking back down again.
Ratchet's grip on his helm fins tighten. He holds Rodimus in place as he thrusts down his throat. Rodimus goes limp and pliant, his already floaty processor going completely blank. Ratchet using him like a cheap frag toy has him gone, optics half-shuttered as he weakly groans with every harsh thrust of Ratchet's spike.
By the time Ratchet overloads, Rodimus is totally strutless. Ratchet's transfluid fills his throat and drips from his slack mouth. When he pulls out, all Rodimus can do is whine, his vocalizer shot from the rough beating his throat had taken.
"Are you alright to keep going, Roddy?" Ratchet asks.
Rodimus blinks hard. He swallows a couple times and feels a hot thrill run through him at how ruined his throat is. He raises one hand in an "OK" gesture.
"Okay then. You've been a very good boy for me, Rodimus. Do you want your treat now?" Ratchet pets Rodimus's helm, and he leans into it with a hum.
Rodimus nods. He turns to Drift.
Drift gets up on his hands and knees and gracefully turns around. He lowers his chest close to the floor, aft up and valve on full display.
Rodimus gives a broken whine, scrambling over to him so quickly that he nearly falls over. He plasters himself to Drift's back, hands landing on either side of his helm as he thrusts fully inside of him in one smooth motion.
Drift pants and whines beneath him, optics fluttering shut as Rodimus pounds deep into him. Rodimus feels as wild as the animal he's pretending to be, gone mindless by an instinctive drive to mount his mate and breed him. His fingertips dig into the floor and he nips at Drift's neck cables, unable to bleed off the insatiable energy that's completely taken hold of him.
Rodimus's overload hits him like a thunderbolt, throwing his systems out of whack as the pent up charge pours from his frame and into his environment. Electricity arcs from him to Drift and leaves scorch marks on their armor. It trips Drift's own overload and he gives a high-pitched cry, writhing beneath Rodimus.
They both crash down again hard, straight into soft reboots. Rodimus comes to a few moments later to Ratchet gently turning him onto his back. Ratchet unbuckles his collar and subspaces it. Then he detaches the ears and tail and does the same. He takes Drift's gear as well.
With everything put away, the game is finally finished. Rodimus takes Ratchet's hand and lets himself be pulled up onto the couch. Drift follows as well, curling up with his helm pillowed on Ratchet's thigh. Rodimus tucks his face into Ratchet's neck and sighs as he massages between his spoiler wings to ease the tension there.
No matter how much Ratchet makes him play by strict rules and punishes his misbehavior, Rodimus always enjoys every second of it. Especially when he gets such a wonderful treat at the end.